XXV: Blunted Ice
Usually, when Hawke felt fury it was a burning passion – a fiery rage that (sometimes literally) exploded out at whatever unfortunate had earned her ire. And whoever earned her ire truly earned it – she was not quick to actual anger. Really only her dear Uncle Gamlen had ever earned such wroth from within her small circle. Until today, that is.
She wanted to kick Martin's teeth in. Unstop a bottle and shove it down his throat. Throw him down a well into Darktown, drop a fireball after him, then stop up the hole.
Merrill might be faffing about with blood magic, but that girl doesn't deserve what I… what we've put her through. She doesn't deserve to be treated like… like a thing. No one deserves that.
Ordinarily when she was this irate she would find the nearest post to strike, or pillow to beat – sometimes even start a brawl at the Hanged Man. Maker knew, that bunch was always up for a tussle. This time, though… this time her fury was a cold iron in her chest. Focused, directed – though according to Varric, the scum that had attacked Merrill were dead or dying. That left only one person responsible still standing. Or lying, in his case.
She shouldn't have been there. Not Dockside, and not alone. And she wouldn't have been there, if not for him.
Hawke marched with a purpose through the claustrophobic streets of the Alienage, hyper focused – so focused, that she almost failed to notice the emptiness around her. She stopped, briefly, scanning for any potential danger.
No one walked the streets. The only signs of life at all were the muted sounds of the city, blocks and blocks away. Just ahead, a shutter slammed closed.
I am the danger, she realized. That which sends folk fleeing into their homes. The thought turned her stomach – and almost thawed the ice in her chest.
Almost. Merrill's face flashed through Hawke's thoughts, and her guilt froze her fury back into place.
Hawke continued forward, towards the Alienage's sacred tree – her footsteps kicking up dirt with their sheer force. As she made for the shanty that was Merrill's house, she tracked dirt and dust up the wooden steps. By the time she reached the elf's door, even the dirt had abandoned her. All was still.
Suddenly her rage roared to the surface – Hawke had the furious notion to kick down the door and go in swinging. She schooled the feeling back immediately, snapping taut. Wouldn't do Merrill much good, busting her house up. Instead, she carefully tried the latch.
The door creaked inwards, spilling the late afternoon into the elf's dark shanty. Martin lay just outside the reach of the door, facing upwards, a ratty blanket only halfway covering him. She saw no evidence of movement, no rise and fall of breath – though she wasn't surprised, what with his cuirass.
What'll it be? A swift kick in the ribs? No, that plate'll just ding me right up. Bucket of cold water would be nice, if Merrill even had any 'round here. Stamp on the hand might do the trick… but…
Hawke found herself distracted by the expression on Martin's face. Since she'd first met him – wasn't very long ago, actually – Martin had looked fairly battered. It wasn't just the obvious scars he bore – it was in how he carried himself, and in his eyes. That first night those eyes could have been described as forlorn, a loneliness that implied a depth Hawke found downright attractive.
As time had passed, that attractiveness had faded bit by bit. His eyes became sunken and bloodshot, and his whole countenance faded to one of gaunt despair. It only worsened as he continued to drink, as whatever torment he had brought with him from Ferelden dragged him deeper and deeper into misery.
It broke her heart, honestly. Not just because she understood a bit of that pain he carried, from the hell they'd shared at Ostagar – nor was it just the passing fancy she felt for a rugged, well-spoken countryman. Only at that moment did Hawke realize just how truly bad things had gotten for the man as she took in his sleeping, unusually relaxed form. She felt an unbidden warmth welling in her chest.
What in thunder did Daisy even do for him? He's all but smiling. It was a strange contentment that marked his face, a far cry from the furrowed anguish he always carried. Did they… no. Couldn't, not in the state he clearly was in.
As if he noticed her regard, Martin's eyes blinked open. He squinted lazily halfway at her and halfway at the sun framing her back. "Hello, Hawke," he greeted amiably.
Hawke struggled not to smile, trying doggedly to remember her anger. "Rise and shine, you jackanape. Just what do you think you're doing, sleeping on someone else's floor?"
Still somewhat bleary-eyed, Martin pushed himself up on his elbows, twisting to take in his surroundings. "I do not… recall," he answered slowly, clearly puzzled. "I do not remember how I came to be here."
"Well, clearly you had an eye for a softer mattress than the usual Hanged Man fare," Hawke supplied dryly. "Leastwise, one would think you found the king of comfort with how rested you look."
Martin smiled – a subtle, halfway smile, but a smile nonetheless. He tilted his head, stretching his neck. "A bit stiff, but rested, truly – strange. It feels a lifetime since I last slept."
His vocal satisfaction was enough to remind Hawke of her wrath at what he had caused, of just what the piker deserved. "And while you got the sleep of a lifetime," she snapped icily. "Merrill thought you sick or dying. Not sure she's used to strange men collapsing in a hooch steeped stupor in her parlor. She wasn't sure what to do, poor thing – so she tried to find someone who did. Ended up Dockside with a knife in her neck."
Martin froze shock still, his smile faded. He blinked, once.
"She's alright," Hawke continued mercifully. She felt suddenly ashamed at even the moment she'd left him hanging. "No need to fret about her – Carver's on his best behavior, and I'm sure Varric's already cheering her up. Not that she seems to need much."
Martin sat for a long moment, his face twisting through a series of emotions – relief, frustration, then confusion. "She thought me ill?" He murmured.
"That she did," Hawke confirmed. "Apparently nothing she did would wake you. Said something about durlum or some such. She's not like to know what signs mean that man's dead to the world or just dead, it seems. Thought one of us might – good thinking that, at least."
He grimaced and seemed to shrink within himself. All evidence of his peaceful sleep fell away, as a haggard misery draped itself over him.
"Havard's bones man," Hawked sighed, exasperated. "What brought you here, of all places? To Daisy's door?"
Martin sat up and leaned forward, his eyes downcast. "I only remember the beginning of last night, not the end," he shrugged despondently. "The hope of forgiveness, perhaps. It is the only thing that makes sense." He let out a short, choked laugh that morphed into a sob. "Only drink-drowned would I hope for what is beyond me."
Hawke looked at the man for a long moment, then squatted to be level with him. "Forgiveness? What could possibly…"
She remembered Merrill's clan then – what the Keeper had said. 'Is our daughter well?'
"Is this about your friend?" What was her name? Mahariel?
"Aye," he nodded. "Merrill's clan-sister. My friend, my comrade," he nearly spat the words out with disgust. "And what a friend I was to her. I would not wish such friendship upon anyone."
Hawke was unsure of what to do, what to even feel anymore as Martin withdrew within himself. He looked so despondent, so defeated – Hawke couldn't just sit by and watch.
This might be all his fault – well, mostly his fault – but damn it, passing misery about helps no one. Gingerly, she reached forward and clasped his shoulder. "Chin up, man," she consoled softly, squeezing his shoulder. "It can't have been all that bad."
He didn't acknowledge her, merely stared downward – a thousand leagues away.
Unless it was… "Just what did you do?" She asked tentatively.
He released another sobbing, agonized laugh. "I gave sound counsel. And she heeded me." He sniffed, wiped at his face. "Still, I take some comfort in the penance I now face. My exile is only just, the betrayal I endured only fitting." He met her gaze then, his eyes filled with resigned sadness. "Merrill is alright, you said?"
Hawke nodded dumbly. "She'll be fine. At the end of the day, it was just a scratch."
"A scratch born because of me," Martin reflected. He pushed himself to his feet – Hawke followed suit. "It is good that she is well, but I must apologize to her for the intrusion," he said, looking off over Hawke's shoulder before snapping his gaze back to hers. "I should not have come here. This will not happen again, I assure you."
There was resolve in his tone that belied his earlier resignation. "Martin…" Hawke said quietly. "Perhaps… perhaps it would help to talk about it – of whatever it is you did. Might be you can still make whatever it was right, or at least get it off your chest. Could be that Merrill could forgive you, for your friend - "
"No, I think not," Martin resolved. "It was a foolish notion, born in swill. It cannot be. There is only one road to me left. I am in exile, and I shall die an exile."
Exile. The word had a bitter sound, one that rang too close to Hawke's own predicament. "Exile cannot be so bad," She argued – whether it was for his sake or her own, she did not know. "You might need to claw and scratch for it, but there is still a life worth living. Even here in Kirkwall."
He stared at her incredulously in silence a moment. "Do you truly believe that?" He finally asked.
I have to, or Bethany died for nothing. Bets. But she couldn't say that. That would only make it worse. "Listen, think of it… well… scratch that. How about… I may not spin a yarn quite like Varric," she began. "But bear with me. Say you're on a bridge, see, crossing over some swirling rapid. It's swaying with each step, the planks old and crumbling, the rope frayed and rotting."
"Rotting and crumbling does resemble Kirkwall," Martin interjected snidely.
"Hush you lout," Hawke chastised toothlessly. He didn't smile, but he tried to. "Let me finish. The bridge seems like it might fall at any moment – you're not halfway 'cross yet, and the wind's picking up. Now, one of two things can happen – you can choose to give up and go down to the depths below, or trust to hope that the bridge'll hold and press forward.
If you choose to give up, set yourself down and meet the end, well then, you're right buggered. But if you keep on – you might just reach that other side, or at least reach close enough where you could hang on if the bridge went down. What do you gain if you lie down – a few moments torn at by a howling gale, before an icy death? There's nothing to lose but that dubious reward in the trying – and you might just reach the other side in the end."
Bets would want me to try.
Martin was back to looking away, refusing to meet her eyes.
"Do you get me?" Hawke asked, stepping forward. She took his hand in hers, gave a gentle pull, forcing him to look at her. "Might be where we're at here, in Kirkwall… might be it's a rotting bridge. Stinking, unpleasant, like to give out under us. But it might just keep our feet 'till we make that horizon. The only thing to do is keep moving forward."
The man's eyes shone with moisture. He looked down, swallowed, and wiped as his eyes with the back of his free hand. "If anyone can reach the other side, it's you, Hawke." His voice broke with sincerity. "I pray that you do."
He clasped her forearm and squeezed, as if he were clinging on for dear life. Hawke returned the gesture, unsure of what else she could do, what else she could say. Unsure if what she had said had reached him. Unsure if she even believed it herself.
He let her hand fall and straightened. "Come, let us return to The Hanged Man. I have trespassed on Merrill's hearth long enough."
He stepped past her and out the door, disappearing into the evening light. Hawke stood alone and breathed in the quiet.
Only thing to do is keep moving forward.
Hawke then too stepped out after her friend.